


No Passenger Was Known To Flee

by Meddalarksen



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: 1960s, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergent post ep 2x08, I'm working partially from memory folks but am trying to stay as close as possible, M/M, Memory-wiped!Rip, Oculus!Len, They're also stubborn so the actual relationship is likely to take a while
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9168481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meddalarksen/pseuds/Meddalarksen
Summary: When Rip Hunter sent the Legends through time to save them, it sent a ripple through the time stream.  A ripple strong enough to be felt in a place without time.





	1. Too Slow For Those Who Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from Emily Dickinson's poem of the same title/first line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Time Is" by Henry Van Dyke

It was strange. The threads that curled out away from the center like some massive spider web. The cords of time, spreading infinitely toward forever. Past. Future. Present. None of it mattered at the center. Pulling on a thread would bring it into clear focus, though they were only mist the rest of the time. Like clouds on a sunny day: barely there wisps. He didn't know how he knew what that looked like. He didn't know how he knew that was _before_ when there was no before. There was no after. There was only now.

Sometimes he would tug on a string, see what was happening along it. It wasn't always the same string, but it was always one nearby. He could feel as lives drifted by, past present and future. Always moving, always living, always dying. All of time held in a single moment. "There are no strings on me." Constant echoes. "Don’t you think we have the power to change our own fate?" It was hard to think. "Team? You and I were a team!" Hard to _remember_. "My old friend. Please forgive me." But why would he remember? There wasn't anything to remember.

There was no before. "Hero ain't on my resume."

There was no after. "Shut it down!"

There was no _before_. "If I’m gonna keep working in Central City I’m gonna need a new kind of crew."

There was no _after_. "You should have figured it out by now. After all, I am supposed to be the dumb one."

There was no before. "Never let anyone hurt you. Ever. Not here. And especially not here."

There was no after. "He broke my sister's heart. Only fair I break his."

There was only now. "Stealing's not screwing up."

There was only now. "I wasn’t cool. I was an arrogant little snot."

There was only-- "I must say, it's been an honor to serve as your captain."

There was--"Make sure Picard here doesn’t get us all killed."

There-- "This is the history that needs to be fixed."

 _Now_. "Stick together. And remember: history is yours now, my dear Legends. Good luck! End recording, Gideon. How much time do I have?"

The strings drew tight, reverberating under him. Over him? Around him? He curled his hands around the strings as they doubled back and back and back. Things _changed_ and he could _taste it_. The back of his throat felt like it was coated in ice, in metal, in snow, in fire, in....

And then one _twanged_. It was supposed to die. It expected to die. And then....it didn't. Something was rippling through time, falling through it, _shredding_ through it. He reached out and caught hold. Rough. Brown. Long. _Coat_.

And then he was pulling away, the strings yanking at him, fighting against the tearing. He tightened his hold on the string. No, not the string. The coat. The tail end of....something, he couldn't remember what it was. There was no need to remember there was only--

And then it was green and yellow and falling down the side, ricocheting and....time flowed. Suddenly there was a before and an after and a now. And it _hurt_.

His hand twitched and he lost the...coat. (Rip's coat). He hit the wall of the, the, _temporal zone_ (“It’s essentially a-a time limbo. We can hide out there for a bit”). He was against it and then, then he was _through_ it. Falling, falling, still falling. This was not good. This was not the plan. There was always a plan. There was no plan. ("Stick to the plan, Mick.")

He twisted and turned, trying to right himself and caught a glimpse of where he was falling. Fuck this was going to _hurt_. Nothing had hurt for so long. So short? He couldn't keep it straight. But maybe he could slow…he reached out and his right hand (new, new, newer than the rest of him--"Why am I only hearing about this now?") snagged on the rail of a fire escape, but his weight pulled too hard on his shoulder and he let go before he dislocated his shoulder (bad, bad, can't work with that. Makes you useless).

It slowed him down enough that when he hit the trash piled up on the ground of the alley he wasn't killed, at least. He lay there, swearing to himself as he tried to figure out what had happened. Who he was. Where he was. No, no that wasn't right. _When_ he was.

He sat up gingerly and almost swore out loud (bad, bad, don't let them know where you are). His left arm hurt like fucking hell (cracked, snapped, broken) and he was fairly sure his hip was at least bruised, he could use the leg so probably not broken too. Cracked ribs though, those would be a bitch to heal (wrap them tight, take deep breaths, don't get pneumonia it's too loud). He probably looked like hell, smelled worse.

Taking deep breaths, he tried to remember. Tried to figure out the _before_. "Lisa."

No, that wasn't right. Yes, before, but not him before. Ties, cords, blood, _strings_. There was a string. He reached out into the thin air and tugged lightly on nothing, but he could feel it. He spoke quietly, "My name is Leonard Snart. I was born in 1972. My name is _Leonard Snart_ (Len, Lenny, Leo, _Cold_ ). I was born in 1972 (Pierre Hotel Robbery, Apollo 16, Watergate)."

Well, it was a start. Now for where and when he was. He hefted himself to his feet, keeping his left arm close to his body and trying to figure out how the hell he was supposed to get money if his right shoulder was wrenched and his left arm was broken. Well, better hope this was before street cameras ("What about the years before? Before fingerprints, and surveillance cameras, and DNA analysis.") He limped carefully out of the alley onto a nearly empty street. Also better hope he was near a crowd.

Strings, still strings ("If I’m going to be somebody’s puppet I’m going to be one that cuts his own bloody strings”). He followed where the most came from and found himself on a busy street. Something about it was familiar, but not enough to tell him where. He stumbled, earning dark looks as he ran into a few people—well enough off but not enough that they'd immediately check their wallets (Too obvious, a bad lift, a bum able to be remembered). He pulled out any cash he could find in them and dropped the wallets themselves as he passed a trashcan. No credit cards—probably for the best, what he needed would need to be back alley and even if not, he couldn't risk that getting pinged.

He tried moving his left arm again and bit back a sound, gingerly feeling it over with his right hand. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought, bruised, maybe sprained and dislo—no, that was a break there.

Another wallet and he had enough for cleaner clothes and a newspaper, no matter when he was—definitely somewhere in the States, and in the 20th century. He spotted a charity shop ahead and ducked in, wincing at the sound of the bell at the door. The girl behind the counter looked up and then leaned away, keeping an eye on him. Well, that wasn't helpful. He found some things that looked like they were in the right size and limped over, "Just these."

She considered him, offering him a quiet price and looking progressively more freaked out. "You...You need help, Mister?"

"No, I'm--" He cut himself off from his immediate response, "You know a doctor? Does cheap work? I ain't got much."

"Doctor Jefferson on 37th will take what you can pay and accept IOUs," she said, taking the money he gave her.

"Thanks." He stepped out of the shop and ducked into an alley, changing his shirt and coat. It was slow going, even with the button-down shirt he’d bought (Too much like Lewis). He looked at what he had been wearing and hesitated before stuffing it in the bag from the store. He glanced around, found an adequate landmark and stashed the clothes. He wasn't _quite_ ready to give them up yet. Better to have than have not.

Now, a newspaper and find a way to 37th.


	2. I shall already have forgotten you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title "If You Forget Me" by Pablo Neruda.

December 6th, 1966, Central City. Middle of one of the worst snow storms the city had seen since the last war if you asked. Len hadn't bothered to ask. It didn't stop people from telling him, but he didn't ask.

He'd been in the city for six months. The first two had been hard with his arm in a cast and no reputation to work on. He'd used them to establish new landmarks and start getting a count of the emergency response times ("I listen to their radios; I learn their response times. There are forty banks in Central City each within sixty seconds of police response").

Month three had been a pain in the ass while he built strength back into his arm and tried to get a crew together. The first crew had been a fucking disaster of a plan and he'd managed to get them all out through sheer fucking luck.

The fourth month started the nightmares he couldn't ignore. Apparently the strings hadn't been all that happy that he'd left. They'd come along for the ride. Or one end of them had. He was getting better at ignoring them but sometimes he had to resist the urge to claw them out--literally. Between the nightmares, the flashes that he was sure were some strange third view of his own memories, and the way people reacted to his eyes sometimes Len was well and truly sick of time fuckery.

Month five finally brought a crew he could work with and two fully successful heists. And now month six was dawning with a plan for a third. Then it would be time to lay low for a while.

Of course that would imply that he could concentrate for ten minutes. "Frank, turn that shit off for fucks sake."

"Aw come on, Hunter. We're not gonna be able to do anything for a week or two. It's a goddamn blizzard out there," Frank complained.

Len truly hated the name he'd chosen but it was innocuous enough and it was a name he’d recognize and respond to. He sure as hell couldn't go by "Snart" in Central. Especially during the period where Lewis was at least pretending to still be a straight cop. He also didn't want to risk any name that might ping either "cop" "rich" or "not white." “Rory” was a family name over in Keystone still. Maybe he was going overboard considering the combined brainpower around him but he also knew better than to take stupid risks. Especially when his background didn't exist and when it finally did his mother was black. So Leonard Hunter it fucking was.

Everyone assumed he fought in the last war, though he didn't talk about it. He was pretty sure they were off by a year or two but it was better that they made those assumptions. The stories people told themselves were always the best cover.

He looked up sharply when a voice from the TV echoed in the living room of the apartment he was using for planning, damn but he missed the warehouses in 2016. "Calvert, Oklahoma, 1868. When last we left--"

"When are they this week?" Jim asked coming in from the bathroom.

"You're talking over it," Frank said as Len shook his head.

The strings were pulling again as he answered "Calvert, Oklahoma, 1868." (“The day will come when you'll all leave, and Salvation will end up like Calvert"). He stared blankly at the screen, recognizing the silhouette thereon.

"Hunter?" Jim sounded wary and had to repeat himself three times before Len snapped out of it.

"Turn that shit off and let's get to work. You can watch TV on your own time," Len said, the back of his neck prickling. Someone knew. Someone knew _too much_.

Frank was watching him warily and carefully snapped off the TV and got to his feet. Len glanced toward the screen again and saw an extra glint. Oh. That explained it. Fucking oculus. "You okay boss?"

"Peachy. Plan is to hit this hard and fast next Thursday. Snow or no snow." He fell into the familiar rhythm, ignoring the blue glow that he knew was brightening his eyes. Someone knew and he didn't know which string to pull. All he had was a TV show.

o-o-o

Michael woke gasping, trying to catch his breath even as he scrabbled for his bedside lamp. He managed to get it on and sat up, breathing carefully. Leaning forward and burying his hands in his hair he forced his heartrate to calm and tried to catch the last wisps of his dream. It was the best way he gathered ideas. They never seemed to come when he was awake.

Once he felt like he could breathe again he reached over and fished his journal and a pen out of the bedside table. The threads of the dream were already leaving, and what he had left wasn't enough for a story, but it could be a start. It was time to start adding in something of a romance, perhaps.

It would mean further casting. Unless….he caught the trailing end of part of the dream, someone already introduced. That other cadet from the scene at the academy just before Rip was shipped out on his first mission. Something to think about, she would need an actual name beyond just her title in that case.

He sighed and finally pushed back the blankets on his bed. He wouldn’t be getting back to sleep. The dream hadn’t stayed as well as they used to—he was still using some of his early journals for episode ideas. All he had a feeling of was fire, violence, destruction. Not exactly something he wished to return to.

Pulling on his robe he made his way out of the bedroom of his apartment. All but stumbling through the living room, he reached the kitchen and set his coffee percolator on the stove, getting that started. He leaned against the counter while he waited, swallowing hard against the grief and anger that was nearly choking him. It didn’t….feel right. It had to be a holdover from the dream, but it was so strong that if he didn’t know better he would swear it was his own.

Distance, the fact that he hadn’t seen them in _years_ , all of that should have made any sense of loss easier. And it had. He had come to terms with the fact that he had done something unforgivable, which explained why he hadn’t even had contact with his wife and son in the last six years. No, it was longer than that he was almost sure.

His son would be fourteen? Fifteen? Goddammit he didn’t know anymore. Michael swore quietly and was relieved when the coffee finished.

He poured himself a cup and moved over to turn on his radio, it was the better option at the moment. He kept feeling like he had lost something, like he was _forgetting_ something. But there was no hint as to what that could be. He was in the best place he could ever remember since the accident. Anything before that point was…hazy, like looking through a fog.

Almost seven years ago. Even the first two years after seemed more dream than memory. The harder he tried to focus on it, the more it scattered and he only ever ended up with a headache. If it wasn’t completely insane he would think the dreams were memories, but that wasn’t possible.

He couldn’t remember the accident, but doctors had told him that was usual. Some sort of vehicular something and he got flashes of falling. He’d broken bones, and been told he was lucky to still be alive. Now if only he could push past the mental damage and actually remember more than general feelings of what came before.

No help for that. He had work he could be doing. Michael retreated to where his typewriter was set up and sat down, returning to the script he had been working on the night before. He would have to talk to the casting director and see if they could get that actress back, and if not it would be necessary to create a new character. He had some ideas of where to add her in on the next episodes they were filming—it would only take a few script edits.

o-o-o

“Casting left a message for you, Mr. Gold,” Patricia said when Michael arrived on set. “I can’t repeat most of what was said because this episode has children involved, but it boiled down to the fact that if you wanted to have that actress recurring it would have been nice to know back when they originally found her.”

“So does that mean that they’re not going to be able to get her again?” Michael asked, accepting the clipboard Patricia was carrying. He skimmed over the pages thereon and signed what he needed to, making a couple of notes on the schedule at the top.

“That means that they’re throwing a fit over trying to,” she answered. “They’ll try, but they’re making no promises. They also want to know what they’re looking for if they can’t.”

“I thought I told them that already,” Michael said, handing her back the clipboard and heading toward the part of the set they would be using for the first filming scene of the day. “We’re looking for Rip’s love interest. Dark hair, dark eyes, well spoken, and really that character that she played is on the nose for it, but hell, if they can’t get her back then we’ll work around that.”

“Right,” she scribbled the note down on a page near the back of the clipboard. “You’ve got a meeting with the producers tomorrow morning, and one with the execs on Friday. Filming’s on schedule, but there may be a question of filming locations available on the lot for some of the episodes.”

“We’ll work around them as need be. This one will do for the next three or so, with some minor changes,” Michael said. “What the hell would I do without you, Tricia?”

She grinned, “Take on even more than you already do, and probably never sleep.”

“Like my own Gideon,” he murmured before he thought about it.

Her expression twisted for a moment and she pushed her hair back with one dark-skinned hand, “Not sure how I feel about being compared to a computer.”

“The heart of the ship and the reason Rip Hunter doesn’t go mad?” Michael offered with a sheepish smile.

Patricia shook her head slightly, changing the subject, “Cast is almost ready to go for filming and the crew’s got the set ready for them as well.”

“Great. Then let’s get started, it’d be nice to be out in a reasonable number of hours today.”

o-o-o

Len was going to murder whoever had decided making a fucking TV series about Rip Fucking Hunter. He had only caught an episode here and there, none of the names attached were remotely familiar (Not true, not false, not true), and it wasn't like travel to Hollywood was an easy thing to plan and arrange.

Also, every time he caught another damn episode he spent days unable to sleep without nightmares. No batch was as bad as the first one (Calvert, an example, a fire, death, screams). Nothing quite like your dreams ricocheting between being burned alive and being the ones doing the burning. Two fucking solid weeks of nightmares courtesy of his own spider web of time.

Two and a half months later and Len was seriously contemplating a trip to California just to have words and possibly a fistfight with whoever Michael Gold actually was. At least he might get some sleep that way. It wasn't like he lacked the cash to get there, not with how good his heists had been going. He would still be damned before he worked for the Santini family, but his own little crew was doing well. The problem was on the other end. He had no plan for how to actually meet this Michael Gold. Somehow telling the bastard that he was from about fifty years in the future and had traveled with Rip Hunter sounded like a great way to get locked in a nuthouse.

Also, what the fuck sort of name was Michael Gold? Pretentious, rich, bastard sort probably. Len startled out of his musings when he heard the theme on the TV that he had left on as background noise—damn he missed his old crew. He looked up and froze when a new character was introduced as "Miranda Coburn." (Dead, dead, killed by Savage, fixed point, can't be changed).

Alright, that was it. He wasn't all that fond of Rip Hunter, but using his dead wife was a line you just didn't cross. He sighed and shut off the TV, reaching for a pad and pen, starting to map out how he was going to deal with the problem when he reached California. He'd set up a flight for later this month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that Rip's supposed to be making movies, but him making a TV show gave a) more breadth to what he could cover and b) made it simpler for Len to stumble across it. 
> 
> (Points to anyone not my roommate who gets Rip's name reference--since she's the one who imparted it to me in the first place).


	3. Sore Must Be the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Emily Dickinson's "Hope is the thing with feathers"

Len stepped off the plane mentally cursing. He pulled his leather coat off, slinging it over his shoulder. The difference between March in Central City and March in Los Angeles was somewhere between forty and fifty degrees. And his own unwillingness to wear light colors or short sleeves made it that much worse. If he stuck around longer than picking a fight with Michael Gold he might need to budge on the color thing.

He picked up his duffle--army green and found in surplus--and headed for the taxis outside the airport. He'd catch a cab part of the way to his destination and get a bus and then a second cab. Convoluted but it would work. He shaded his eyes against the sun. He should, in theory, make it to the studio with a couple hours before they were likely to wrap for the day. He hoped. His schedule on this end was shakier than he would like simply because there were too many variables.

He spent most of his rides to the studio lot assessing his different ideas of who Mr. Gold could be. Possibly one of the team though that didn't...sound right. Raymond wouldn't be likely to use Miranda (Anna, fiancée, love, dead), Stein was more likely to be furthering science, the kid underestimated himself and was likely to get ignored and not just for his age. It wasn't Sara or Mick's style. It wasn't any of the team's style. Made no sense for it to be a time criminal considering the topic. Maybe a Time Master not at the vanishing point ("Shut it down!")

Someone who knew Hunter but didn't necessarily like him--anyone who liked him would have avoided Calvert and would have left him single considering where that ended. Too much was accurate for them to _not_ know where it would end.

Len snapped himself out of his reverie as the cab came to a stop outside the gates. He grabbed his bag and paid the cabbie, tossing in a good tip. Shouldering his bag he squared his shoulders and strode toward the gates knowing that acting like you belonged was the best way for people to believe it.

That worked right up until the first line of security. Which Len noted made them better trained than guards at some museums he'd cased. He slung his bag off his shoulder, he really should have gotten a locker at a train or bus depot but it was what it was, "Now, really, gentlemen, holding me up when I'm expected seems a bad idea."

"We just have to confirm why you're here, and whether someone mentioned it to us," the older of the two guards said. His younger partner was looking nervous with the hold up—good to know that Len's air of authority could still work sometimes at least.

Len offered a sardonic smile at that, twisting the ring he'd picked up around the little finger of his left hand—it had been a weird couple of months when he didn't have something on that finger, "No, I get it. I know how it goes, gotta keep the bosses happy. It's just this is the first call I've gotten in a while and the idea of being late...well, it's hell to pay with that director y'know?"

"What'd you say your job was again?"

Len leaned against the wall of the security booth, "I'm here to help Mr. Gold with the next few episodes lighting for that time travel show. You know the one. Apparently there's something up with the equipment and if there's one thing I know it's electrical shit." (“In another life you could have been an electrical engineer.”)

The younger of the two guards let out a low whistle, "Jake, if it's for that one..."

"Yeah, yeah. Alright, you've got a walk still, lot 9's on the far side," Jake said. "Just come check with us when you leave, yeah? And good luck."

Len offered them a smile and touched his brow before shouldering his bag again and heading through the gate, "You're a real pal, Jake. Thanks." Lot 9. And apparently his gamble about the director's particularities paid off too. More information than he had at the start but still not enough to tell him what, or who, he was walking into.

He quietly opened the small door once he found the building they were shooting in, slipping in just in time to hear a voice, vaguely familiar but not perfectly, raised in exasperation: "Can we _try_ to-to get this right people? I don't wanna be here all night! Am I talking to myself? Today!"

Len carefully set his bag down right next to the door, easy to grab during a quick exit, and moved forward using the same technique that had gotten him to the gate: look like you belong and people will believe you. "Mr. Gold?"

"Oh for god's sake!" (familiar, familiar, strange). The director turned in his seat to face Len, "What do you want? Who the hell are you?"

Len froze, a handful of feet away from the man. His hair was too long and his accent was _wrong_ , but there was no mistaking that particular expression. Of all the possibilities, this was one that had never even crossed Len's mind though maybe it should have ("Michael?" "That's me. My...birth name."), " _Hunter_?"

He got out of the chair he had just sat down in, which put him less than arm's reach from Len, "Are you asking me or telling me?"

Len stared at him, all of his plans sliding down and shattering against the chill that was spreading through his mind, “You _fucker_.”

That earned Len an offended look that was way too damn familiar, "Excuse me? Who the hell are you to come barging in here, interrupting filming and—Y'know what? It doesn't matter. Would someone get the damn security in here."

Len's eyes narrowed and he pulled his arm back, slugging Hunter across the jaw. He shook his hand once as that bastard time traveler reeled back and then snapped forward, responding with a rusty and telegraphed swing of his own. Len simply ducked around him, dodging out of range and heading toward the door again, "Don't bother. I'll see myself out."

"Now hold on just a damned minute there," Hunter snapped and Len stilled for a moment before turning again and fixing him with a cold stare.

"Trust me. You don't want me to do that. Not if you want to keep your teeth." Rip and his goddamned ego. Making a fucking TV show, one that would show too much. One that the entire damn team would be able to access. What the--

"Mr. Hunter, I really--"

Len shook his head once, snatching up his bag and getting the hell out of there, the crew still staring. Better to get moving before anyone thought to actually get the security their director had demanded. Once out and a couple of lots away toward the main entrance, Len slipped the wallet out of his pocket. ("It's called multitasking.") He opened it and pulled the cash out—hell of an amount to carry on your person. He considered just dropping the wallet but paused when his gaze caught on the driver's license inside.

He should go back to Central. He _really_ should go back to Central. Forget all about this. Go back, keep running heists, build a new life. A life without any ties. Without, without.... (Lisa, Golden Glider, sister, _meaning_ ). He wondered if the team had ever made it back to 2016. He thought he had a vague sense of Mick finding him in a bar years prior to that, looking worn, tired, _sad_ even. ("You're the best guy I ever knew. You may not think you're a hero but you're a hero to me.”) That didn't mean anything though. Lisa might not....might not even know he was gone until he didn't show up. No, he had all this time shit in his head and it wouldn't do him a damn bit of good. Not without the bastard back in that film lot.

Shaking his head sharply, Len finally reached his decision and dropped the wallet where he was sure someone would see it and turn it in. He left with a wave to Jake and the kid, leaving them with a vague comment about "bosses who forgot hiring people." He had a destination and, once again, no plan. Now he needed a bus and a taxi.

o-o-o

Michael pushed open the door to his apartment, well after dark, and dropped his bag just inside the door. His wallet had been waiting for him at the gate, thankfully, though the cash he’d had inside was gone. He had some pretty strong suspicions as to where exactly that had gone, but filing a report would be useless as that was the only thing missing and it wasn’t like he was that strapped for money or something.

The hell even was his day? He crossed to the kitchen, digging through the cabinets for something quick so he could just tumble into bed. He paused as he passed his typewriter and frowned, changing direction. The scripts sitting there with his comments weren’t where he’d left them. Oh it was almost right, but it was also just a little too close to the typewriter—close enough that he would end up knocking them off with his elbow every time he went to hit the return bar. He turned carefully around, trying to see if there was anything else out of place. He picked up the lamp by his typewriter, kicking the cord loose as he moved carefully through his apartment.

After reassuring himself that it was completely empty and that the windows and doors were all securely locked, Michael breathed a soft sigh. There was nothing missing that he could see, and the only thing out of place were the scripts. It was….possible he’d put them there himself accidentally. He didn’t remember even touching them that morning, but it was possible.

Raking a hand through his hair, he settled on a quick sandwich and headed to bed, chocking his paranoia up to the incident at the lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they're finally in the same city! The next scene is kicking my ass so this chapter ended up shorter than I meant for it to be. Ah well.


	4. Tell All the Truth But Tell It Slant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the poem by the same name by Emily Dickinson

Len sat on the mattress he’d managed to haul into the apartment he’d talked the landlord into renting him for cash. It wasn’t perfect and he needed to get himself a line on money that wouldn’t require him flying all the way back to Central and selling off the things he had from the heists there. Especially if he was going to have the money he wanted for later (No, no, wrong, bad, change time). He hadn’t been intending to stay longer than a day or so and now he had a month-to-month lease and no actual source of income. He was going to be starting from scratch for the second time in less than a year. For fuck’s sake, was it actually worth it?

He rubbed a hand over his close shorn hair, running over everything that happened at the studio lot the day before—almost two days since it was the middle of the night but he was fairly sure it was after midnight. Rip hadn’t recognized him at all, nothing in his stance or expression put lie to that and sure Rip could lie but not _that_ well. But that didn’t make any sense. Sure they were out of time, but…(Drift, long, time, caught, forgotten). He mentally shoved the oculus strings away because that didn’t make _sense_. Raymond and the bird wo— _Kendra_ , damn it hold those memories not others—had been time drifted, wasn’t that what it was called? And they hadn’t forgotten. Not that completely. They were, what, unmoored? Loose from their time? He’d seen its effects on them, on Sara. This wasn’t that.

If it was then Rip making movies, TV show, whatever the fuck, about his adventures ought to make him _remember_. And even if it was like something distant, seeing someone familiar, hearing a familiar name? Any of that ought to jog _something_. So what the hell had happened and how much worse was this than time drift? What would cause it and how did he reverse it because if Rip god-fucking-damn Hunter didn’t have his memories then they were both stuck and virtually dead to anyone who knew them.

On the other hand, it was possible that it was time drift. He'd been in the 1960s for less than a year, but Rip had been there long enough to establish himself and get the connections to make a goddamned TV show and the experience to make it a pretty damn decent one too. Something told Len that it wasn't standard Time Bastard training. But how long would you have to be out of time to forget and learn that much? _Years_ at least. Rip didn't look that much older, but if Len was being honest he hadn't been paying a lot of attention to that.

Goddamn it, he was gonna have to go back to Central and liquidate his assets. It should be plenty to get him through a few months of establishing himself, though he might need to find grunt work in the meantime to stretch it a bit. It could be an excuse to establish something other than a bruised jaw with Ri— _Michael Gold_. He had to remember that name, also figure out a good one for himself. He could probably use his own, no warrants for him in this decade since he wasn't born yet, and wasn't that a trip.

He'd talk to Mr. Gold in a couple of days and then head to Central to pack everything up and get settled in Hollywood.

o-o-o

Michael sighed, dropping his bag just inside the door of his apartment and kicking his shoes off. He leaned against the door and rubbed a hand over his face. He really should work on the scripts, or find someone else to write them but that wasn't...actually an option he ever considered seriously. The problem was that between the hours and hours on set and the fact that he had to eat and sleep when he was home, the scripts were languishing. A day off for the cast and crew the next day to avoid burnout—they'd just finished filming an episode and the next one was going to start on Monday so two days really. He really wanted to just sleep, but he could always do that the next day.

Yes, that was probably the best idea. He moved over to the kitchen, starting coffee and finally remembering that he was still wearing his coat. Pulling it off, he threw it haphazardly toward the hook by the door—missing even the door by a good four feet.

He leaned against the counter and watched the coffee percolator, blank-eyed. His dreams were more vivid again the past handful of nights, ever since that man had shown up on set. Michael was wondering why he had ever hoped they'd grow vivid again. He was fairly sure they were all taking place in a warzone, he could hear the echoes of screams every time he went to sleep.

There was a knock on the door, nearly sending Michael tripping to the floor when he startled badly enough to knock his hip against the handle on the front of the oven. "Just a second!" He called, shutting the burner off under the percolator and looking at it longingly before he crossed the small apartment.

He kicked his coat out of his way and opened the door, freezing when he recognized the man on the other side. He started to close the door almost immediately but the asshole stuck his foot against the frame to stop that.

"Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot," the man said, offering him a smirk that frankly just made Michael suspicious for reasons he couldn't entirely explain. Though the fact that he had a still healing bruise on his jaw might have something to do with it.

"Is that the one where you socked me in the jaw or the one I'm going to break if you don't move it out of the way of my door?"

"The one where I thought you were someone else and reacted badly," he said with a small shrug. "Name's Leonard. I just moved in upstairs but I...need a favor."

Michael just stared at him, "And the reasons I shouldn't press charges for assault? Or, oh, demand my cash back?"

"Because I'm really very sorry?" Leonard asked, possibly trying for contrite and flying right past it into suspicious again.

"Right, I bet you say that to everyone."

Leonard grit his teeth and drew a deep breath, seeming to reach a decision, "Because I've got a kid sister that depends on me being able to provide for her, even from halfway across ti—the country."

Michael looked him up and down, putting his age at likely late-30s, though with the grey in his hair and faint lines on his face it might be closer to early or mid 40s. There was some strange truth to what the man said but he was also far too old to have a sister who would still need that financial support, or...well maybe not if she was in college, "Let's say I believe that _you_ have a sister young enough to need your financial support, why me?"

There was a brief glint in Leonard's eyes like he figured he'd already got Michael's agreement, "Because you seem like a fine upstanding citizen and that's what I need."

Michael sighed, hating knowing he was a soft touch. If there _was_ a sister involved, he wouldn't actually risk her support, "What do you need?"

"I just need someone to make sure the landlord doesn't rent out my apartment while I'm out of town for a few weeks," Leonard said.

Michael's eyebrows rose, "Are you paid through the end of the month?"

"Yeah. But that hasn't stopped people before. Once burned, twice shy, all that shit," Leonard said with a shrug.

That got another sigh from Michael, "Alright, fine. You got a key?"

"I'll slide it under your door tomorrow on my way out. Should be back in a couple weeks, but I'll let you know when I'm back," Leonard said.

"If I've got your key--"

Leonard snorted, "You really think I've only got one copy?"

Michael decided not to comment on the fact that he was fairly sure there was something in the lease about not making additional copies, "Point. Which apartment is it?"

"The one directly above you. Four Cee," Leonard answered. "Thanks."

Michael nodded, weighing the manners of being neighborly against how much he was still considering pressing charges a week old. Suspicion won out, "You're welcome. Have a good trip."

Leonard nodded, sliding his foot out of the doorframe finally and heading toward the stairs. Michael watched him go before closing the door again and locking it. Well, that was one way to meet the new neighbors.


End file.
